Tonight, my sopping bones melt through my skin–
here I will fade into the strips of soak–
enormity within their spongeing lines.
Enormity, and so it goes: a spot,
now spreading on my sheet, of sloppish mulch,
of squelching mush, of flesh and bone and blood
removed of form and shape: of hair and heart–
magnificent upon a time–now gruel
in greys expanding on an empty bed;
these bones were once a church, this blood was life;
yet now all fades in drying, grotesque lines.
A year ago, the bed was made the same,
no shape misplaced, no organ present but
dripped liquid on a crusty, oozing sheet.
Until tonight, the room had sat forgot,
sat gone in memory, but now the cold
enormity of aging porridge riles,
long trapped beneath sandpaper skin; the hot
enormity of sundered dreams recall
sheets grey and cracking, soaked and seeping, time
seems backwards, now, and here I lie; tonight,
not only will my bones retreat from flesh,
end wriggling on the bed like post-rain worms,
slop, fall, and creep, but it won’t serve to last:
sometime–in years, perhaps–I’ll grow anew.
Of this, I’m sure: my skeleton will grow,
form up, solidify; of this, I’m sure:
At present, I am melting on this bed.
Life leaves me, waterfalls away, bleeds out,
in sheets of hungry age it leeches, drips,
falls to the floor and proves that in the end,
enormity is nothing but a lie.
Lips like callouses,
and the earth is pushing out daggers
to clutch at low shrubbery.
Breath like dragonsmoke;
I like to visualize
a furnace inside me.
Where are you,
Why are you so
Even when I see you,
you seem so far
Last night, beneath the heavy blankets of
a winter comfort, I, with sleep like sheets
upon my tired eyes, imagined you
resplendent in your Christmas green, your eyes
alight, your mind as beautiful as spring.
My eyes fell closed and so, released, my thoughts
adventured realms beyond my waking world—
returning ever back to you, to you,
and ever back to you, to you:
zephyrus winds returned my thoughts; on calm
zephyrus winds my thoughts returned to you.
I dreamed of you last night, and always will.
The whole forest must
know that I’ve
It smells of rich,
the feast of a thousand roots
in a forest after rain:
the hunger of an earth
now sipping at autumnal leaves:
new ground and bending reeds:
stubborn foliage still
though the sun is showering now.
Fall leaves on the crowns
of trees glow golden,
I pause to
read what you’ve sent me,
and my breath clouds—
but November’s creeping up.
I think I feel your
forest spirit beside me.
(a dog barks)
In the middle of the city,
this petrichor forest
is like a novel,
to get lost in even
in the middle of a busy house
or time set aside for homework.
My shoes shuffle on boardwalks
and disturb sodden leaves;
your spirit is harmonious,
even with the ref’s whistle
sounding from the sports’ field out of view,
even with the gossamer strands
of spiders’ web
strung between the thorns.
The whole forest must
know of your
The morning air smells sharp and cold.
I push aside my sheet of leaves
and cedar boughs to feel the breath
of dawn upon my waking flesh.
I dress in robes of autumn soil
and so pad softly out the door,
my footsteps teasing coffee earth
to gently loose its heavy dew.
My rattling lungs inhale its scent.
I wash my eyes in singing drops
of mountain’s tears and dry
the crystals from my cheeks upon
an ancient cloth of velvet moss.
The forest choir expands the world
around my senses, heralding
the openness of day, the wide
and trackless hours of newborn time.
Your hand slips into mine: the rasp
of palm on palm, the warmth of skin
on skin, the trembling of my veins,
the tremors of your energy,
the pull—the pull—the pounding of
our feet, the sharpness of our breath,
the wildness of our path: and so,
a forest flown; and so, a dream
rejoiced; and so, a day fulfilled.
I glimpsed you in the forest, dancing in
the silver shafts of moonlight falling through
the leaves like liquid; in the river, too,
I saw you splash among the jagged stones
and play beneath the water’s raging foam;
I watched you laughing in the streets, where lights
and darkness weave their jumbled patterns and
the sidewalk cracks are filled with life; and on
the rooftops, singing out a song of wild
abandon, I espied you from afar,
your wingtips glowing in the endless stars.
(Please take me where you are!)
Upon the emptiness between the black
and white primeval lines, I glimpsed your eyes,
and through their gaze I found new colour in
the pages; in the nighttime, too, where eyes
have disappeared, I saw your light and heard
you whisper in the movement of my blinds;
between the tickings of my clock, I watched
you confidently soar beyond our time,
your autumn sandals etching maps into
the unknown planes; and in the faces of
the people that I met I spied the care
you give to everything, and felt you there.
(I see you everywhere.)
It is the end of an era. Hundreds of pages, dozens of characters, thousands of hours later, The Hunger Games of Scotland have finished. Click here to read about Avory Jackson, who refused to follow the rules and paid the ultimate price; Coraline Findlay, who led a rebellion to free the tributes from the arena of the second annual Games; Rose Becket, who escaped from the arena during the first annual Games only to be captured and subjected a second time; and many more varied and riveting characters.